Page 2 of Peril in Piccadilly

“I know better now.”

I nodded sympathetically. “Of course you do. Someone told you to stop, I imagine.”

And not because his addressing me as Darling was discourteous to me, but because his new fiancée wouldn’t want him to call someone else something that sounded like an endearment.

“Be that as it may,” Crispin said airily, without confirming or denying, “from now on, I will have to address you by your given name, I’m afraid.”

“Of course. Am I expected to do the same?”

It only seemed fair, didn’t it?

And no, I didn’t want to do it. I would much rather have him continue to address me by my last name so I could address him by his title—this given name business was more familiar than I was comfortable with—but I was damned if I would let Laetitia get away with telling him how he could speak to me. If she wanted to stop him from addressing me too informally, she could damn well put up with me returning the sentiment.

Crispin opened his mouth, and then closed it again. Laetitia scowled at him, but there was nothing he could say, after all. We were cousins, or the next thing to it, so if he addressed me by my given name, it only made sense that I would address him by his.

Wolfgang cleared his throat and Laetitia turned to him. “My apologies,Grafvon Natterdorff.”

“No matter,” Wolfgang said politely, although he was looking from me to Crispin and back, not at Laetitia.

“We’ve just come from the theatre,” I informed them both. “You never did have anything to do with Marie Tempest, did you, Crispin?”

He stared at me, appalled. “I hope you’re joking, Darling.”

Laetitia cleared her throat, and he made a face. “Philippa. I hope you’re joking?”

“I wasn’t,” I said. “Why would you hope that, precisely?”

“Marie Tempest is older than my mother, Dar… Philippa. Older than yours, too. Older than Father. No, I’ve never had anything to do with Marie Tempest. How dare you?”

“I must be thinking of someone else,” I said blandly. “Someone whose name and occupation is similar, perhaps.”

Someone like Miss Millicent Tremayne—another actress, but a much younger and much less accomplished one—with whom Crispin had had a fling sometime within the past year or two.

Laetitia’s lips flattened into a thin line at the reminder. Crispin looked resigned. “I’m not even going to ask how you know about that.”

“The same way I know about all of them,” I said. “Grimsby the valet’s blackmail dossier.”

He nodded. “You memorized it, I assume.”

“I didn’t have to. Your misdeeds are heroic enough that no active memorization was necessary. I was appalled, frankly. So many women, so many drunken nights, so much— mmph!”

“Yes, Darling. Thank you. Ow.” He removed the hand that had covered my mouth and examined it ruefully. “Did you have to bite?”

“It seemed appropriate.” I pursed my lips and sputtered a few times. “Really, St George. Crispin. Did you have to manhandle me?”

“Of course I didn’t have to, Dar… Philippa. But as you said, it seemed appropriate.”

“When is it appropriate to put your hand over a young woman’s mouth to stop her from speaking?”

“When she’s about to share your innermost secrets with everyone in the Criterion Restaurant?” Crispin suggested, which I suppose was fair.

“Well, I wish you wouldn’t do it. It’s not as if your misdeeds aren’t already known far and wide. Nor will they go away simply because I don’t articulate them.”

“Of course not, Dar… Philippa. But if you have any love for me at all, I beg you to refrain from rubbing them in my face at every opportunity.”

“You know very well that I don’t. But since you ask so nicely…”

“Thank you, Darling.”